The Missing Dog Is Spotted (10 page)

Dear Mr. Creelman
, Trevor wrote.
Buster likes to be read to, just like Mr. Fester's first dog. Maybe you could read out loud in the cemetery. It might be easier to catch Buster if you did.

Trevor read over his note. There was still plenty of white space. He thought he should add one more line of encouragement.

Maybe you could read your book of epitaphs, like you did at the Queensview Mystery Book Club
, he added, hoping that flattery might work.

There was still a bit more white space. And Trevor desperately needed to clinch the deal.

He thought back to when Mr. Creelman had visited their school with his blue bin of cemetery stuff and had finished off the class by reading one epitaph after another. Trevor recalled that there was a nice section of epitaphs written especially for pets. There was one in particular about a Dalmatian who had served as a heroic fire-station mascot.

Trevor wrote,
Maybe Buster would like the one about the fire-station mascot, because it was about a spotted dog, too. Sincerely, Trevor Fowler
.

Trevor read his note again. Satisfied, he carefully folded it and put it in his knapsack to be delivered later that day.

It was almost the end of the last class of the afternoon, the late-day sun shining through the window, when Mr. Easton made his announcement. He started off by telling the students how much he had enjoyed his year with them, and how they had taught
him
rather than the other way around. Then he dropped his news.

“I'm going to be leaving Queensview Elementary and moving back to Ferndale.”

There were soft gasps all across the room.

“I've been offered a teaching job there, and, well, Ferndale is where I grew up. I miss my hometown very much.”

Trevor didn't nod in agreement because there wasn't a single place that he had lived long enough to call his hometown. But everyone else in the classroom seemed to know exactly what Mr. Easton was talking about. Their surprise quickly turned to sympathy.

“Will you finish out the school year with us?” Loyola asked from the back of the room.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Easton said. “And before the school year ends, I have one more assignment for you.”

Everyone held their pens at the ready, waiting to take notes.

“I would like each of you to write a short story, a true story, something that really happened to you during your time at Queensview. But I want it to be a story about a situation where something went wrong, something that you never got a chance to fix and may never get the chance to make right.”

“Like what?” Miller asked.

“Well, maybe you broke something at home and let your little brother or sister take the blame. Maybe your pet died and you never got the chance to say goodbye. Maybe you borrowed something very precious from a friend and then lost it. That kind of thing.”

Noah said, “So you're talking about an autobiography.”

“Isn't that like a diary? My sister has one,” Miller said. He turned in his seat to face the rest of the class. “Only hers has a lock,” he added bitterly.

“Your sister has the right idea,” Mr. Easton said. “And like that diary with the lock, I won't be reading your stories. In fact, no one will be reading your stories. That's where Trevor's time capsule comes in.”

All eyes turned to Trevor.

“What I want you to do is write about something difficult. Then you'll put your story into an envelope and seal it. Trevor has agreed to provide space in his time capsule where you'll put all your stories. And there they'll be stored, safe and secure, for the next fifty years.”

“So we'll be writing something that no one else will read?” Craig repeated in awe. “Not for fifty years?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Easton said. “That's the most important part, so you'll need to keep this in mind as you're writing. That way you can be truly honest. And if you can be truly honest now, it will make you a much better writer for other projects.” He paused. “There's one more thing. By writing about a bad situation, you might find that you'll feel better about it, even though you still can't fix the problem. So if there's one particular thing that's troubling you the most, you should probably write about that. After all, you'll never get a chance like this again.”

Mr. Easton had been pacing back and forth at the front of the room while he spoke, but then he made his way over to the window. He took a moment to scan the fence line before returning his attention to the class.

The students grew silent, pondering the assignment.

Trevor had no trouble whatsoever coming up with what he would write about.

Ten

—

A Likely Story

WHEN TREVOR
stepped outside after the last class of the day, a warm almost-summer breeze brushed against his face. Others bumped past him as he opened his knapsack. His note to Mr. Creelman was still there.

He knew that coaching Mr. Creelman on how to capture Buster was a good idea, but he couldn't help feeling out of sorts.

It was guilt.

It had to be the guilt.

Maybe he should go back inside, see if he could track down Loyola. She might go with him to keep him company.

But, no. She wouldn't go with him — not without the dogs. Despite all their time together during their community service work, despite all the talks and all the laughs, even despite the trouble they were in now, he knew that she wouldn't want to be seen walking alone with him. That's how much she hated the tall jokes. And if Trevor was truly honest with himself, he hated the short jokes just as much.

What a shame. For once, Trevor had spent enough time with someone to almost form a true friendship. If only their heights hadn't been such an obstacle.

Trevor took a deep breath and headed down the steps of the school on his own. But as he walked along the sidewalk, he was filled with feelings of regret. Up ahead, on the right, he could see the beginning of the ominous iron fence that surrounded the ancient cemetery, its bleak gray markers sprouting up from the bright green spring grass. But a bit beyond, on his side of the street just before the florist's shop, was a large colorful sidewalk sign with the word
Sale
written in cheerful handwriting. It was placed in front of the used bookstore called A Likely Story.

Mr. Fester's old store.

Trevor had never been in there before, and his curiosity won him over. He passed the cemetery and ducked inside.

Ink. Ink and dust. That's what he smelled. And something familiar that reminded him of the animal shelter. Lasagna?

“Don't mind me,” a voice floated toward him. “I haven't had my lunch yet.”

Trevor stood uncertainly at the door. He had a hard time locating the owner of the voice among the enormous clutter and the stacks and stacks of used books crammed next to each other from floor to ceiling. There was barely any place to walk between the sagging, overstuffed bookcases. And there were far too many top shelves for Trevor's liking.

“Come in, come in!” the voice merrily called out.

And then Trevor spied her — a young woman wearing an elephant-print scarf and black triangle-shaped glasses. She came out from behind the camouflaged desk to greet him. She was wearing polka-dot tights and holding a take-out carton from Sacred Grounds Cafe, fork poised over a thick slice of cheesy lasagna.

“Sacred Grounds Cafe makes the best,” she said, pointing to her lunch with her fork.

“I heard that,” said Trevor, realizing he was hungry because he hadn't eaten much of his own lunch that day on account of writing the note to Mr. Creelman.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” Trevor said hesitantly.

And he wasn't. He had no real reason to be in the store, other than stalling his visit to the cemetery. He tried to make up something.

“I'm here to buy a gift,” he said in haste.

“Lovely! For who?” she asked.

“Um,” he said in an attempt to think of someone's name and coming up empty. He was still out of sorts.

“Oh. I see,” she said and smiled slyly at him. “A girl.”

“Right,” Trevor said. He knew a girl. “Loyola,” he said.

“Loyola. What a pretty name.”

“I guess,” Trevor said. He had never thought about it.

“Tell me about Loyola,” she said.

“I don't know. She's in grade six? She likes dogs?” His statements came out sounding more like questions.

“Lots of girls like dogs. Tell me something specific about Loyola so that we can find the perfect book for her. Something unique that she's interested in.”

“Something unique?” he repeated.

Trevor thought back to when he started community service duty with Loyola and the first time they discovered that they actually had something in common.

“Loyola likes solving puzzles,” he said triumphantly, remembering their conversation in the park.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed, setting down her lunch on her desk. “Come with me.”

Trevor followed her as she zigzagged through the maze of books toward the back of the store. They came to a section with a sign hanging overhead that read,
Detectives and Mysteries
. Then she started running her finger over the spines of the books on the shelves below the sign, reading the titles to herself.

“No. No. No,” she kept saying, before moving onto another row. And then, “Ah! Here we are!”

She pulled out a bright yellow book and handed it to Trevor. The front cover featured a boy secretively passing along a note to a girl while they were sitting in a classroom. He read the title out loud.
“How to Crack Codes, Ciphers and Other Secret Messages
.
”

Trevor opened the book to flip through the pages. Each chapter started with a story, and then sprinkled throughout the chapters were plenty of diagrams that showed codes, signals, ciphers, sign language and invisible writing. The blurb on the back read,
A fun-filled book about codes and secret writing used during real world events
.

Loyola might actually like this book, he thought. He certainly would. He checked the price, which was handwritten on the inside cover. Did he have enough money? Trevor reached around and set his knapsack on the ground. He opened the small outside pocket where he stored whatever was left of his allowance. He counted the money. Not quite enough.

He must have looked sad, or crestfallen as Noah would say, because the store owner said, “No worries. That's close enough. It's for a girl, after all.” She beamed at him.

Trevor shrugged. He was happy to get a good deal. He walked with her to the front counter, which was also covered with stacks of books, to pay. As he was sliding his purchase into his knapsack, he remembered something unusual about the used bookstore.

“Do you ever come across playing cards tucked into some of the books?” he asked.

“Why, yes, I do,” she said with astonishment. “Always the queen.”

“Are they wearing a hand-drawn pair of glasses? Red glasses?”

Her eyes widened even more.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “What do you know about them?”

“I met the previous owner of this store. His name is Mr. Fester.”

“Yes, that's right. Heimlich Fester. I bought the store from someone who bought it from him years ago.”

“Well, he had a wife who loved to play cards. She was in tournaments and everything. He nicknamed her the Queen of Bridge. Anyway, before she died, she tucked playing cards with the queen into books throughout the store, just to remind him of her.”

“Oh my! What a beautiful love story!” she said, surveying her inventory in awe.

Trevor shrugged again and turned to go.

“I hope your special friend enjoys the book,” she said, returning to her lasagna.

“Thanks,” Trevor said as he found the door.

He crossed the street and headed back down the sidewalk to the gate of the cemetery. As he walked along the iron fence, he scanned the grounds for any signs of Mr. Creelman. There were none. Trevor set his knapsack down to fish out the note that he had written. He spotted it jammed between Loyola's book and a pad of paper with Mr. Easton's description of the last assignment written inside. He plucked the note out and wedged it between the decorative curls of the open iron gate. He heard something that made him look up.

A bark.

He scanned the cemetery. A gray sea of silent gravestones faced him with their eroding names and dates. The only movement came from the birds overhead, flitting from treetop to treetop, and a squirrel who scolded him from the top of the gate. Then he saw a dog.

Just a glimpse.

By the first hedgerow, under a bench.

The dog had spots.

“Buster,” Trevor called, his heart pounding.

He took a tentative step inside the cemetery. Then another step. Then another. Pretty soon he was well inside, past the first ten rows of headstones, past the double grave marker with one side missing its epitaph, and headed in the direction of where he last saw Buster.

Now he was well past the oldest section of the cemetery with the ominous skulls and crossbones plastered everywhere, and he wandered into the newer section filled with white marble sculptures. Many of the headstones were deeply carved with angels or had statues of figures in mourning, weeping into their hands or looking sorrowfully up at the sky. One of them had the carving of a small lamb resting on top, its little head of curly wool tilted slightly as if it was watching passersby. A child's grave marker.

Trevor reached out to touch the lamb's head. It was warm from the sun.

He pressed on, feeling bold. Now he was in the newest section of the cemetery, with rows and rows and rows of polished granite gravestones lined up with precision. These were much smaller, much less elaborate than the marbles and more squat, but the names and dates were deeply carved in razor-sharp letters, and they gave him the feeling that they would last forever.

Trevor also noticed that some of the rows had gaps, places where people had bought a plot but were not yet buried. Way off to his right, at the end of one of the rows, was a fresh mound of soil without grass. A recent burial. Trevor walked toward it and saw bouquets of wilting flowers arranged at the base of the grave marker. He could also make out the epitaph. It read,
Only in darkness can you see the stars.

Trevor didn't want to get too close, but that wasn't what stopped him. He had stumbled across a stuffed toy ladybug lying on the grass between two granite rows. Trevor picked it up. It was still damp from being held in a dog's mouth.

“Buster?” he called.

But Buster was nowhere to be found, probably having already doubled back and escaped through the front gate. All Trevor heard was the sound of the birds in the trees, and, way off in the distance, the engine of a jet airliner flying overhead. He put the toy in his knapsack.

“Good afternoon, young man,” said a gravelly voice behind him.

Trevor whirled around and came face to face with Mr. Creelman in his orange coveralls holding a grass trimmer. Trevor's mouth went dry.

“Did you leave this for me?” Mr. Creelman held Trevor's note up with his gnarly fingers. His tone was accusatory.

“Yes,” Trevor said, trying very hard not to sound so nervous. “I … I'm worried about Buster. About finding a good home for him.”

Mr. Creelman's face softened, but only a little. Then he scowled again.

“I've already tried reading out loud. Hasn't worked so far.”

“Did you read from your book of epitaphs?” Trevor asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Creelman said matter-of-factly, shoving the note into the pocket of his coveralls.

“Is Buster here often?” Trevor asked.

“Comes and goes,” Mr. Creelman said.

“Does he look hungry? I have a box of dog cookies,” Trevor said eagerly, desperate to help. He was about to set his knapsack on the ground and fish out the box, but Mr. Creelman stopped him.

“Already have cookies,” he said, arms crossed, hugging the grass trimmer handle to his chest, not giving Trevor an inch.

“Oh,” Trevor said, deflated and out of ideas.

“It's not a matter of catching him,” Mr. Creelman said. “It's a matter of what to do with him after he's caught. Heimlich can't take him at the seniors' residence, and his son's children are highly allergic to dogs, so Buster can't go there, either. That's why he's been begging everyone to find Buster a new home.”

Trevor gulped. Poor Buster.

“Can you take him?” Mr. Creelman asked, giving him a level glare.

“Me? I'd really like to,” Trevor said, and he meant it. “But my parents are pilots and we move around too much to own a dog.” Then he added, but not as cheerfully as he would have liked, “We're about to move again, right after school ends.”

“You're moving?” Mr. Creelman asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. This weekend, actually. Everything is in boxes.”

“Must be tough,” Mr. Creelman said. His face softened once again, but only a little.

Trevor usually made some comment at this point in the conversation about liking change so as to brighten the mood, but this time he couldn't manage it. He looked at Mr. Creelman, with his bushy eyebrows and the deep lines around his mouth, and then he looked around the gloomy place and declared, “I hate moving.”

Even as the words came out, he was surprised. He was telling the truth for once. He had no reason to pretend with Mr. Creelman. And it felt good to confess.

“Most don't,” Mr. Creelman said, “but not everyone.”

“I guess you're right,” Trevor said. “Our teacher, Mr. Easton, is moving back to Ferndale and he seems happy about it.”

“I know. I ran into him at the public library, returning all his books and paying his overdue fines. If he keeps up with his writing and teaching, he's going to need someone to help organize him.”

“I think there's someone in Ferndale he wants to marry,” Trevor said.

“Yes. So I've heard.” He paused and then he shot his hand up in the air in a way that told Trevor to stop talking.

They both stood frozen, Trevor having no idea why.

Then, after a long moment, Mr. Creelman slowly lowered his hand to his side.

“Thought I heard Buster,” he explained.

Trevor looked around. No Buster. Just headstones.

“What about that girl you hang out with?” Mr. Creelman said.

“Who? Loyola?” Trevor asked.

Mr. Creelman nodded.